Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

behavior, about her growing fear that Burke had begun to resent her amateur sleuthing.
    Michael’s eyes were dancing. “Tell me the poem again.”
    She repeated it. “What do you think?”
    “It sure smacks of a cult.”
    “I was afraid you’d say that.”
    “Well, it would explain a lot. The amnesia, for instance. Maybe they had him deprogrammed or something. Maybe his parents had him deprogrammed. Like a Moonie.”
    “Oh, Mouse!” That possibility had never even occurred to her.
    “It’s possible.”
    “Do you think they would do that? Without telling him, I mean?”
    He shrugged, smiling. “My parents would love to deprogram me. Hmmm … I wonder what that entails? Maybe they lock you in a padded cell full of Muzak and zap your genitals with an electric shock every time you respond positively to a Bette Davis movie.”
    “Mouse, have you heard from your parents?”
    “I guess you could call it that. My mother wrote to say that my ‘sin against the Lord’ was killing my father, and my father wrote to say that it was killing my mother.” He smiled wanly. “They’re terribly worried about each other.”
    Later that afternoon, Jon showed up at St. Sebastian’s.
    “Guess who’s gonna be checking into the maternity ward pretty soon.”
    “Who?” asked Mary Ann and Michael in unison.
    “DeDe Day. She’s almost a week overdue. With twins, no less.”
    Mary Ann frowned. “That’s kind of sad.”
    “How so?”
    “Well, with no father, I mean.”
    Jon shrugged it off. Beauchamp Day had been no loss to the institution of fatherhood. “I saw that guy in the parking lot,” he said, changing the subject.
    “Who?”
    “The guy who runs the flower shop. I don’t blame you for being spooked.”
    “Why?” Mary Ann felt the hair on her forearm prickling.
    “Well, he looked at me like I’d just caught him raping a nun or something.”
    “What was he doing?”
    Jon shrugged. “Nothing that I could see. He was loading a cooler into the trunk of his car.”
    “A cooler?”
    “You know … Styrofoam. Like for beer.”
    “Speaking of which,” said Michael, “didn’t my gynecologist promise to get me loaded today?”
    Jon laughed, then made sure the door was closed. He handed Michael a joint of Mrs. Madrigal’s finest Home Grown. “You two can smoke it,” he said, “but keep the door shut, and wait till I’m out of the building.”
    Mary Ann didn’t even hear him.
    A Styrofoam cooler?

Father Knows Best
    M ONA WAS WASHING DISHES WITH A VENGEANCE when Mrs. Madrigal walked into the kitchen.
    “Are you upset with me, dear?”
    Mona frowned. “No. Of course not.”.
    “You’re upset with somebody. Is it Brian?”
    Silence.
    “I thought you said you had a lovely dinner with him.”
    “He is totally fucked up,” Mona said flatly.
    Mrs. Madrigal picked up a towel and began drying dishes next to her daughter. “I know,” she deadpanned. “I thought he’d make a splendid son-in-law—with or without the sacrament of marriage. You need a friend, Mona.”
    “I don’t need this one.”
    “What did he do, for heaven’s sake?”
    Mona turned off the tap, dried her hands and slumped into a chair. “We did have a nice dinner. It was wonderful, O.K.? So I went back to see him the next night. It was late, I guess, but not that late, and he could’ve at least shouted through the door or something, if—” She cut herself off.
    “If what?” asked Mrs. Madrigal.
    “If he had somebody with him.”
    “Ah.”
    Mona turned away, fuming.
    “How do you know he was even there,” asked Mrs. Madrigal.
    “He was there. I saw him going up the stairs less than ten minutes before.”
    “Was he with someone then?”
    “No, but he could’ve … I don’t know. Let’s just drop it, O.K.?”
    Mrs. Madrigal smiled benignly at her daughter, then pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. She laid her hand gently on Mona’s knee. “You know that sign you hate so much, the one outside Abbey Rents?”
    “Yeah,” said Mona sullenly. “Sickroom and Party Supplies.”
    “Well, that’s it, isn’t it?”
    “What?”
    “Life, dear.” She gave Mona’s knee a squeeze. “We have to put up with the sickrooms if we want the parties.”
    Mona rolled her eyes. “That’s so simplistic.”
    “No, dear,” smiled Mrs. Madrigal. “Just simple.”
    Mona’s snit subsided. Later that afternoon, she and Mrs. Madrigal strolled arm in arm to Molinari’s Delicatessen, where they bought salami and cheese